


Are We In The Clear Yet?

by highlinson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Anxiety, Bottom Harry, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Rimming, Smut, Top Louis, also, and bdsm, but this is actually your pretty normal gay sex after harry being mobbed lol enjoy, mentions of spanking, mobbing, oh also modest! sucks ass but you know that by now ig, so much anal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:53:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2954654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highlinson/pseuds/highlinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, it’s not anything new. He’s gone through it a dozen times, at least. It shouldn’t scare him, still. Should never have scared him in the first place. Yet he’s trembling as he makes his way through the crowds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Are We In The Clear Yet?

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Out Of The Woods" by Taylor Swift because I love her to death, but also because I think the song conveys a feeling of panic, and anxiety, and I think it fits the situation Harry finds himself in quite well. Also the "Are we out of the woods yet? Are we in the clear yet?" parts can be applied to that, but the fic itself isn't based on that song at all, so yeah give it a try if you like, and if not, that's cool too :) (what you definitely should is leave kudos and comments haha ok) xx

Harry wants to go home. His headache is killing him, he hasn’t gotten more than five hours sleep in the past three nights combined, and he just wants to lie down in his bed with a cup of tea. And Louis cuddled around him, preferably.

So, he’s sulking. And of course, everybody notices, hell, he wants them to notice, but as soon as there are several hands caressing his already overheated skin with calloused and rough fingers, and too-loud voices asking him, what the matter was, he grows even more frustrated. None of these hands are Louis’, too, because he’s gone off somewhere doing god knows what, and he’s not here, not anywhere Harry could reach for him, or even look at him, and it’s driving him insane.

He can barely hear beyond the pounding that’s threatening to spread from his right temple to everywhere else, yet he knows this isn’t even the worst part.  
Because there’s a meeting with management awaiting him, in which he, of course, can’t be next to Louis’ calming presence, can’t even look at him without being reminded of the “priority rules”.

He wants to laugh because all of this is so ridiculous, because they’re, apparently, the world’s biggest boyband, yet their relationship statuses are more important than changing their laughable merchandise with pictures of boys they were three years ago to something that could probably attract quite a larger fanbase.  
Laughing hurts, though, so he doesn’t.

Louis, who has just entered the room after hours where he’s been away (it’s been ten minutes, at most, but Harry is cold, and alone, and very, very frustrated), takes in Harry’s hunched over figure and lidded eyes, and immediately takes a seat next to him, possessively curls an arm around his waist and draws him in, whispering against the back of his head.

Harry instantly tries to make himself as small as possible, which is kind of hopeless seeing as he’s grown to be way taller than Louis, and lets himself be soothed by his boyfriend’s low rumble of words.

“Are you ill, baby?”, he gets asked from behind. Vehemently, he shakes his head, sending his curls flying and his head hurting even more, but, he’s still got a point to prove. “Nonsense. I don’t get ill,” he says. “Can’t.”  
Louis rubs his shoulders, his cheek pressed hotly against Harry’s tense shoulders.

Their companionable silence doesn’t last long, however, as the door in front of them opens and an annoyed looking secretary tells them to enter and have a seat, if they please.

Harry whines low in his throat, tries to savour the last moment of being pressed tightly against Louis’ chest, and then gets up, his body feeling cold and heavy.

\--

Half an hour later, Harry drags his body out of the room. He’d tried to block out the conversation, it wasn’t even hard seeing as he was distracted anyway by the ache in his every bone, but then the head of their management team had addressed him directly, asking or more like advising him to help them have his PR image cleaned, and as much as he wishes he’d overheard that part, too, he knows he’s got to do whatever Modest! Wants him to do. His fault for signing a contract that basically allows his team to take away his bloody freedom, at the mere age of 16, oh yeah, he totally should have known better.

But, thinking himself into an even sadder mood doesn’t help his constant situation, like, at all, so here he is now, alone and although he doesn’t want to admit it, ill as fuck, on his way to the airport because apparently him and Louis have been MIA for too long, so separating them by a fucking ocean is the most logical thing to do. This time, Harry does laugh, although it ends in heavy coughing and regret.

\--

He should’ve known. He should’ve fucking known, because of course it was just his luck that every possible gossip newspaper ever was informed he’d arrive at the most overpublicised airport of all. Of course.

He barely got any sleep on the plane, dozing off and waking up after five minutes for about forty times has left his neck in a horrible state of pain, and by now he’s sure he has a fever.

He tries to make the smile he plasters on his face not look like a complete grimace as he stumbles his way to the taxi waiting for him. He’s always hated this part about being famous, all he wanted was to bring their music out there, to be on stage and sing. If he could decide it all, his face would never have appeared in any newspaper page, ever. But he can’t, so the only thing he can avoid is looking for his name on the tabloids.

 

He doesn’t remember much from the drive to the hotel he would be staying at – because he owns a fucking house in LA, bought it to satisfy management and to convince everyone that Louis and him weren’t still living together, but apparently it could still be assumed he lives there with Louis, so a hotel it is.

To be honest, that’s probably better, seeing as the too-big house feels foreign with its barely decorated rooms and untouched beds, and it would only make him miss Louis more.

He sleeps for the next 11 hours straight, only waking up to the sun rudely making its way inside and tickling his bare skin, wishing he hadn’t.

 

\--

He doesn’t want to be here. It’s ridiculous, how often Harry’s had that thought in the past few days, and kind of sad, but. But he’s at a party, and while normally, he’d be all for it, he only feels annoyed since the music is shitty, about eighty percent of the people talking to him only want to get in the pants of somebody famous, and the other twenty percent are celebrities, of whom he has to go home with one girl tonight.

It’s all been planned out, of course, so when Kendall Jenner – of all people – walks up to him, he drowns whatever is in his glass and turns to her.

“Hi, Harry”, she slurs, smirk evident on her face as she runs her hand down his bare arm. She knows as well as him that this is a stunt, and he finds she’s in no way to use him, the way she looks at him as if he was some bloody teenager she could play with sends his blood boiling, and it’s only because he’s a really nice guy that he doesn’t slap her hand away and tell her to do something useful instead of sleeping about to gain publicity.

“I won’t sleep with you tonight”, he all but blurts out as soon as they’ve excited the club and are in the limousine ordered to take them to the hotel Kendall’s staying at.

“Oh honey, I know that”, she says, looking strangely pleased. “I figured I wasn’t quite your.. type.”

Before Harry can wonder what exactly she meant and, if he followed her train of thoughts correctly, how the hell she knew, then she added, “You don’t even have to stay. You can exit through the back doors, I made sure there are no paparazzi.”

This sudden, nice act surprised him, a positive one in what feels like ages of downfalls, so he decides he could as well start a bit of a conversation with her, and by the time they enter her hotel, he realises she’s actually quite a nice girl, so they bid each other goodbye as friends, and Harry can finally go home.

\--

Things go smoothly after that, and so Harry finds himself on the airport once again two days afterwards. He should be happy about going home, and he is, it’s just that this fucking cold just won’t go away, instead decided to come back even stronger than before, and neither him nor Louis have had the time to text each other at all, so he doesn’t even know whether his boyfriend would be at home or not. He might be paranoid, but he’s just so used to disappointments by now that it wouldn’t surprise him at all to come home to an empty flat.

On the flight to England, he didn’t sleep at all, his body tricking him into thinking it was just after noon when really the sun has already set, and he’s started feeling sick about twenty minutes before they landed.

All he wanted right then was to go home, to lie in bed and not get up until the next year, but again, the odds weren’t in his favour.

The thing is, it’s not anything new. He’s gone through it a dozen times, at least. It shouldn’t scare him, still. Should never have scared him in the first place. Yet he’s trembling as he makes his way through the crowds. His body is heavy with lack of sleep and illness, and it’s just too much – too many cameras, too many people, fans, interviewers, and he’s suffocating. H e c a n ‘ t b r e a t h e.

There’s shutters going off to his left, and also in front of him, from behind he’s being bombarded with questions about his ‘latest girl’, and on his right sight there’s hands grabbing for him, holding him in place, in the middle of lights and sounds and-

He doesn’t know what’s happened, has no clue what’s going on, but he’s in a Taxi suddenly, and there’s Paul, concerned look on his face, and oh – oh, he’s crying and, why, he can’t stop crying and it’s so cold, yet he wants to rip off his clothes, and the world is suddenly turning and then there’s a bag, must be from Paul, and he empties his stomach right into it, wretches and heaves until there’s nothing left, and he’s shaking all over, and then the car stops and the door is being ripped open and-

Then, after so long, he’s being held by strong arms, unrecognisably Louis’, and yes, it’s truly him, his boyfriend is petting his hair and stroking his thumb beneath his eyes, and he suddenly becomes aware of the fact that he’s still crying, yet he can’t stop, so he just clutches onto Louis’ shirt and sobs until his throat grows sore.

 

Later, after he’s calmed down somewhat, explained to Louis what happened at the airport, he lets himself be held by the older boy for a little longer. Then, suddenly, Harry looks up and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

Louis looks at him, confused, and asks why he’s apologising. “I, um, I figured you would have probably read it on twitter or in the news or somewhere but, um, they made it so it looked like I was, like, with Kendall, like we-“

He’s interrupted by a kiss onto his swollen lips. “Baby”, Louis says softly, petting at his hair. “There’s nothing you have to apologise for, god, I know it’s so hard, what you’re going through, you’re so strong, love-“

“I’m not strong”, Harry cuts into his trail of words this time.

Louis just looks at him then, considerately, and smirks suddenly. “Let me reward you, yeah? Your back must ache from the long hours on the plane, and sleeping in a bed you’re not used to, right?”

Harry nods, irritated for a second, until he hears the smaller man’s next words.

“Let me spread you on these sheets and eat you out slowly, just like I know you love it, okay, baby?” His lips are now right next to Harry’s ear, making him shudder with want.

For the first time in four days, he’s truly content. He’s at home, in a house he knows like the back of his hand, with his boy, who he can say the same about. His Louis, who knows what he needs, who puts those needs before his own, and he doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve that, if it should maybe make up for what he’s being put through, things like these past days, but he figures that, if he ends up in Louis’ arms, it’s all worth it.

Louis turns him around then, shaking him from his thoughts, and soundlessly strips him off his clothes, then continues with undressing himself.

He hums, licking his lips as he slowly massages just above Harry’s ass, making the younger boy moan longingly. Then, he massages up his shoulders, and at the same time, leans down to just lightly breathe over Harry’s hole.

Louis can tell, he’s already starting to fall apart beneath him, cock rubbing against the sheets, mouth open and a flush from his cheeks down his neck and spreading all across his chest.

Louis knows how upset Harry is, wants him to forget all of that, if only for a little while, he wants him to drown in this moment, so he does everything carefully, and twice as slowly as he usually does.

As he kneads the soft flesh of Harry’s milky bum, he hears a low moan escape the other’s lips, and he takes it as his cue to go further, licking a bright stripe right over his rim.

The room is lulled in breathy sounds from the both of them, and they’re glowing in the moonlight that filters in through the window. Louis takes a moment to admire his boyfriend’s flawless beauty; his broad shoulders, his sensual thighs, his perfectly shaped bum. In the light white glow of the night, Harry’s face seems to have edges you could never see in daylight, it compliments his cheekbones beautifully and lets the way his eyes are scrunched up in pleasure seem even more magical, small shimmers of green behind long, artistic eyelashes and beads of sweat.

Since he doesn’t want to torture the taller man any longer, Louis lowers his head again, this time with newly found purpose as he licks into his hole, revelling in the throaty sounds his partner lets out.  
He could eat Harry out for days, it gets himself so hot, tasting him and only being able to hear, not see, the effect he has on him. But this is about Harry, tonight, so he slowly opens him up on with tongue, all the while letting his hands roam his back, tickling his sides and getting tangled in his curls.

He pulls, once, and shudders at the loud moan Harry sets free, the way it seems he can’t help himself as he ruts up into the mattress.

“Shh”, Louis soothes, “be still, baby.”

He continues when Harry’s body stills almost completely, save for the way his back is heaving with every deep breath he takes and his fingers tightening and letting lose around their bedding.   
This time, he lets his finger join his tongue. It makes Harry jolt beneath him, yet he can see he’s trying to hold still, and he lets it slip, because he knows it’s been a harsh past few days, and tonight isn’t about punishment.

“You’re so beautiful”, he can’t help but whisper against the warm meat of his bum, “so beautiful for me, taking whatever I give you, being so patient.” He rejoins his finger with his tongue, letting out a groan that reverberates throughout Harry’s body, making the poor guy shiver, his skin bathed in sweat from how much he’s holding back.

Normally, Louis would drag this out for as long as he could, would punish Harry for every moan he let slip or everytime he moved his body to chase his own pleasure. He’d bend him over, mark his arse up until it’s cherry red, because he knows Harry loves it as much as he does, would tie his hands to the headboard and make him take it, watch but never touch.

But, as always, he knows exactly what Harry needs, knows not to push him too far, so he takes a deep breath before whispering over his boyfriend’s gasps, “Be loud, Harry. Show me how much you want this; fuck yourself on my tongue, my fingers. Come for me, baby.”

Harry all but jumps into action, god, he’s been so good, thrusting his hips back into Louis’ mouth, his dick rubbing up against the silk sheets, the contact burning, pleasurable, not enough, he needs, but he knows he can’t touch himself, his head too dizzy to ask Louis for anything as he loses himself in the rhythm he’s built up, and as Louis adds his middle finger into his wet hole, he trembles, making a mess of his chest and the sheets.

Breathing heavily, he lets himself roll onto his side, Louis lying down next to him. They kiss filthily, hands pulling at each other’s hair, exploring the other’s body even though they know it better than their own, and then Louis scoops up a bit of Harry’s come on his stomach, and licks it off, moaning.

Harry hauls him back in for a kiss, and then rolls them over, so Louis is on top. “Fuck me, Louis, please, need it so much,” he whispers, cock already growing hard again beneath his boyfriend, who shushes him with his lips. “I know, darling.”

Louis deliberately moves down Harry’s long body, taking his time licking across his skin, biting his nipples until they’re puffy and red, adding marks to his tattoos and leaving scratches for everybody to see. That is, if Harry decided to take his shirt off in public anytime soon, but.

Finally, though, Louis thrusts in, one hand next to Harry’s head to hold himself upright better, next to his curls being all spread out like some sort of wicked halo around him, the promise of something else, and the other joined with his boyfriend’s, which is lying uselessly against the mattress.

Their moans are obscene, and Louis wishes he could savour them, record them and play them wherever he goes, have that sound as his morning alarm, hell, why not release it as a single, because it’s easily the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard.

He also longs to capture the way Harry’s face contorts with pleasure every time he nails his prostate, could take a picture and hang it up in their living room, tattoo it everywhere on his body and bring to an exhibition at the Louvre.

He’s quickly distracted from his thoughts, though, as his hand is squeezed by Harry’s in a death grip, his tell-tale sign that he’s close to cumming, feels his hole clench around his dick, so he tells the wrecked man beneath him that it’s okay, that he can let go, and so he does, paints across his chest, adding to the mess from before, and Louis joins him soon, hands again in Harry’s curls as he lets himself get overwhelmed by his own orgasm.

\--

Later, when they’re in the bathtub, Harry between Louis’ legs, head propped up against his chest, he hears Harry whisper a content “thank you” into his skin, and so he kisses him silly, because words can’t come close to what he feels for this kid; how he gets mad when he has to watch him being put in situations like today, how he wants to cry with him, feels the need to hold him close and never let him go, to shield him from the entire world. But mostly, how much he loves him. And he can tell by the way Harry kisses back, feels it in how the younger boy clasps their hands together that much more tightly, that he feels the same for him.


End file.
